


The Show Must Go On

by cvioleta



Category: DCU, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, One Shot, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cvioleta/pseuds/cvioleta
Summary: Harley muses on various topics while waiting for her hair color to set.   (I wrote this while coloring my hair…because inspiration, hahaha.  It can fit with my other stories, in between Experiment and a Cold Day in Hell, so maybe 5 years into their relationship?  One-shot.)





	The Show Must Go On

 

               She combed the color through her blonde hair carefully, watching in the mirror to make sure it went up evenly on both sides.  Even though hair that was half hot pink and half blue was a statement in chaos, it still had to be _organized_ chaos. It had to look like she had put effort into making sure it was perfect.  Image might not be everything, but it was most definitely _a thing_ when it came to them; they weren’t random criminals, the kind of people who hid underneath black hoodies and blue jeans and tried to go unnoticed.  They had an image to maintain and part of that image was glitz and glamor; everything they did had to be epic, unforgettable, a spectacle you just couldn’t take your eyes off of…the car accident you _had_ to slow down and look at because no matter how much of a _good person_ you thought yourself to be, there was always that little part of you that wanted to see it…wanted to see the body hanging out the window, bloody and shredded among the broken glass, before the police managed to cover it up.  They were that car accident, those pictures from that war-torn country, the web site full of celebrity death pictures, except they presented it with the style of a Broadway show.  And, oh, did that make people uncomfortable.  It wasn’t really the Joker and Harley they were so uncomfortable with – well, at _least_ not unless they were in the potential line of fire.  It was _themselves_ , the way they turned up the news when the stories came on, shushed the children or sent them out of the room, furtively watched the videos of the crime scenes on their phones.

               They had _fans_.  Harley had noticed it from the start, and she was endlessly fascinated by it.  Where was the line that was supposed to be there, between sanity and insanity?

 _You were his biggest fan,_ she thought, and giggled.  She smiled at herself in the mirror.  “Still am,” she whispered out loud.

               And where was the line between them and Batman, just as committed to the image, dressing up in that suit that looked like he ordered it from a latex lovers website?  (Selina claimed he was _blissfully unaware_ of the implications of his clothing choices, but that didn’t stop Harley from pointing out that Batman and Catwoman were characters that looked a lot more like they belonged in a sex club than fighting crime.)  As for Mr. J, he always said that Batman had a dark side and could be turned – that’s why he found him so fascinating.  And privately, Harley thought it was symmetrical – Batman saw this faint but shimmery streak of good in Mr. J and thought there was a way to flip him back the other way.  He just didn’t realize that streak existed in a very narrow compartment with high walls and Harley was the only one allowed in there. 

               She sat down at her vanity and set the alarm on her phone, waiting for the hair color to set so that she could rinse it.  Harley sorted through her jumble of makeup until she found her face moisturizer and started applying it. One thing about all of this stage makeup – it really dried out the skin. You had to take care of yourself, but then, no one said putting on a show was easy.  He’d started letting her do his makeup a few years in, finally convinced that she wouldn’t screw it up but not about to admit the truth that she did a better job. 

               Harley prepared for every night of crime like a seasoned stage manager.  They had to look perfect, their clothes had to look perfect, every prop had to be in place, tested and ready to go, and every player had to know their lines and hit their marks at the right time.  She knew Mr. J liked to throw in some surprises to keep her – and everybody else – on their toes, so she tried to be prepared for any possibility, with a plan B, a plan C, and some nights it ran right into the middle of the alphabet, but that was all right – after all, she was a smart girl with a Ph.d and he was really doing her a favor by making her think so hard.  Otherwise, she might get _rusty_ and turn into the bubbly cupcake the public thought she was. 

               At first, she’d thought she was going along with all of it because she loved him and it was just part of the package.  Some girls had to adapt to a difficult mother-in-law or living in a city they didn’t like, whereas she had to adapt to murder and mayhem.  It was all about accepting the love of your life and not trying to change him.  As if she could, as if she wanted to.  Harley knew herself well enough to know that one of the things that made her love him the most is that he didn’t take orders from her.  He was going to do what he was going to do, with or without her, and she had the rare privilege of being the one at his side.  The _only_ one who had ever been at his side. 

               But as the years went by, Harley had to face the truth.  She wasn’t just trying to please Mr. J.  She realized that she loved it.  Her dark side had been set free and it gloried in her new lifestyle.  How could staff meetings at Arkham compare to pulling an automatic rifle on a hundred screaming people while dressed in a red vintage Alaia gown with a slit nearly up to her hip bone and a pair of stiletto heels that you could kill someone with?  (She knew, because she’d done it.)  Who could tolerate another boring girl’s night out, listening to her friends complain about their lives over cheap wine, if they knew the alternative was standing on a rooftop watching a fire _you_ started consume everything in its path?  Sometimes she imagined they’d actually burn the whole of Gotham down, and be left standing amid the rubble, the King and Queen, untouched by the fire –

               And then she’d laugh at herself.  It was more likely they’d blow themselves up one of these days – but if they did, they did.  She had lived so much in the past five years.  She’d been more alive than she had ever imagined she would be.  Sometimes she wanted so badly to tell him how she felt, how he had literally raised her from the dead, plucked her out of a pointless and monotonous existence and _saved_ her…but, first of all, they didn’t have that kind of conversation.  They’d had an understanding nearly from the beginning that he didn’t want to hear about anyone’s feelings.  Not his, not hers, zip, zilch, zero.  Yet, at the same time, he’d look at her, at the end of an evening, whether they were watching the aftermath of an explosion or admiring whatever they’d stolen, and she’d look at him with her eyes shining from excitement, and she knew that he knew how she felt, and nothing needed to be said.  Which had been a little weird for her at first because Harley was a talker by nature, but she learned to adjust.  Especially since those moments usually ended with them attacking each other, tearing clothes off, biting, licking, kissing, nails digging in, not caring who might be watching, a frenzied state she’d never experienced with anyone else…no one had ever _wanted_ her this much, and that alone was better than all the hearts and flowers and bullshit words in the world. 

               The alarm chimed and Harley shook herself out of her memories and headed to the shower to rinse out her hair.  If her calculations were correct – and they usually were – her hair would be freshly colored and dry and she’d be lying on the bed wearing nothing more than a long purple boa, artistically wrapped around her body and between her legs, when he got home.  A little highlight cream to make certain parts of her body glisten at him, his favorite perfume delicately dotted all over her body.  The diamond pendent he’d stolen for her resting between her breasts on its silver chain, glittering in the firelight.

               She didn’t know how long the show would go on, but she would make damn sure it was one hell of a show while it played.

 


End file.
